"I don't believe Bernd's murder theory,” I said. “You've seen how much Knut loves that boat. He wouldn't run it aground just to send Arne overboard."
Robert sighed. “Women's logic. Men are always destroying what they love. Don't you read the newspaper?"
Just then, Knut radioed the boat and told us where we could find him at the harbor in Fredericia. The autopsy on Bernd wasn't complete, but he'd been shot with a Russian weapon. The gun, however, was missing.
"The police were really disappointed that there were no powder traces on my hands and no pool of blood on the boat,” Knut said. He was trying for a lighthearted tone but it was evident how hard that was. Unless that was just the radio's interference. After Knut signed off, Robert said pedantically that a Russian weapon meant absolutely nothing; you could get them by the dozen at flea markets.
It was already getting dark by the time we were under the bridge and could see Fredericia.
"Rieke, what Heinz-Gunther said is beginning to make sense. Knut's yacht really is lying much too low in the water."
"I know,” I countered. “First of all, I'm not blind, and second, Karsten's always complaining that Knut has mountains of unnecessary equipment along."
"That might be true, but I want to know what's going on on that boat."
"You sure you're not just after a free can of caviar?” I snapped.
The Impedimenta was moored in the furthest corner of the harbor, not far from the garbage dumpsters, which perfumed the air. I couldn't understand Robert. Why in the world did he have to get involved? None of them—not Knut, not Bernd or Arne—were particular friends of his, and if the police hadn't found any traces of blood on the Sea Otter, maybe that's because there weren't any to find.
"I'm not saying that Knut shot Bernd, but don't you think there are just too many coincidences here? Two men who know each other well take a sailing trip together and both of them have fatal accidents? While the skipper's arguing with armed Russians and has a hold full of caviar?"
From my point of view, the words “men,” “sailing tour,” and “accident” could be combined in any number of meaningful ways, but I had to admit that it got more difficult when you added “Russians” and “caviar.” My silence didn't impress Robert.
"I want to find out what's really going on here,” he said.
"So do the police, and tomorrow you can tell them all about the Russians and the caviar,” I said, in what I hoped was a particularly discouraging tone. It didn't work.
"We're going to go on board the Sea Otter and take a look for ourselves. Knut said he wanted to get a beer with Karsten. Nothing can happen to us."
I wasn't sure which part of this undertaking I liked the least. But we all know how it goes: In sickness and in health, in foolishness and in stupidity ... Go spy on other people with Robert, or sit around without him? I went.
We snuck down the pier until we got to Knut's slip. I felt like Ellen Barkin sneaking after Dennis Quaid in The Big Easy, except that I hoped there'd be fewer dead people in our case. Quietly we went on board the Sea Otter, opened the hatch, climbed down the companionway, and locked the hatch from the inside. Robert had broken the police seal without batting an eye, and I decided I found his air of unscrupulousness attractive. Even so, I couldn't stop thinking of Bernd, who'd probably also crawled around Knut's boat and would never be able to tell anybody what he'd found. I stood at the bottom of the ladder, my palms sweaty, while Robert searched the yacht with a flashlight. He found what he was looking for in the foreship, and waved to me to come. Just then, the Sea Otter rocked and I almost fell into his arms.
"It was caviar after all,” he said, holding up a big can so I could see it. “Knut's smuggling Russian caviar. Look at this.” He ran the flashlight across can after can. All the storage space was full of it. “And the boat's not listing in the water, so there must be other stashes besides this one."
"But I can't imagine anyone killing someone else over a little caviar,” I said.
"That's why you write romance novels,” said Robert. “Maybe Bernd interrupted the buyers when they were picking up the merchandise, and they shot him. Or maybe Knut—"
There was a noise behind us and we turned, startled, in perfect choreography. Knut was facing us. Robert still held the can of caviar.
There was a strange calm in Knut's glance, as if he knew exactly what he needed to do. My heart tried to get out through my ears and got stuck along the way. Robert's hand, still holding the can of caviar, began to tremble. The radius and speed were perfect for a martini that was shaken, not stirred.
"And now?” asked Knut.
Robert and I shrugged our shoulders, again in perfect choreography. Maybe we had a future in synchronized swimming. If we had a future. All three of us stood for a long time without saying anything. Finally Knut stretched out his hand, and Robert handed him the can of caviar.
"I'll take care of everything,” said Knut, as if that explained it all—the caviar smuggling, Arne's and Bernd's deaths...
I was still standing there as if rooted to the ground, my mouth as dry as the Sahara. I didn't dare say anything.
"You could help me cast off,” said Knut. He nodded in the direction of the companionway. Silently we moved past him, and he brought up the rear. I kept expecting to hear the noise of a gun's safety catch, but nothing happened. We simply went on deck.
Knut looked around him, and then started the motor. “Cast off stern lines!"
I heaved in the mooring lines and piled them neatly on the deck. “Stern lines are off,” I croaked.
"Then go on, get off!"
Obediently we clambered down onto the dock. My heart was still hammering and drowned out all the questions lined up in my mind, waiting to be asked.
"Cast off head lines!” called out Knut, and pulled the fender on board.
We unbent the head lines and threw them onto the Sea Otter.
"Head lines are off."
Knut nodded at us, and puttered very slowly backwards out of the slip. Then he put the motor in forward gear and left the harbor as night fell. We watched the yacht until its position lights disappeared in the distance.
"Did you understand that?” I asked Robert.
"I might,” he answered. And that was all.
In Robert's crime novels, at the end the bad guy always explains what he's done and why he did it. Knut didn't do that at all. He just sailed off.
Robert and I still can't decide whether Knut killed Bernd and Arne. Anyway, I think highly of him for letting us go. We never saw him again. The Sea Otter was found three weeks later in Skaggerak, south of Norway, her sails torn and heavy damage to her hull. Knut's wife got quite a lot of money from the life insurance he'd taken out. His body was never found.
(c)2007 by Andrea C. Busch; translation (c)2007 by Mary Tannert
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STRANGE DAYS by David A. Knadler
(c)2007 by David A. Knadler
Four years ago, in November of 2003, David Knadler got his start as a fiction writer in our Department of First Stories. Born and raised in Montana, where this series starring cop John Ennis is set, he made his career as a newspaperman before settling down to create fictional characters and plots. He has worked for the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Kansas City Star, and the Missoulian.
Loincloth, black loafers, and a foot-long Bowie knife: It wasn't a great look for an out-of-shape man in his sixties, especially one whose torso had not seen the sun since the Carter administration.
Mel Jordan seemed in the grasp of some strange emotion, probably not embarrassment. On the picnic table, he held the knife high as he balanced tenuously on one leg, eyes closed and face turned toward the patrol-car spotlight. He was humming something. From the pose, Deputy Sheriff John Ennis took it to be a tribal chant of some sort. He stepped closer and recognized the tune: “I Am Woman."
Beside him, Kevin Heibein held a Taser at the ready, his mouth agape. “I don't believe this,” the young cop sa
id.
"Drop the knife and get down from there, Mel,” Ennis called. “We need to talk."
Jordan let out a howl, followed by a couple of yips. It wasn't a bad imitation of a coyote. He began to prance around on the table, misjudged the location of the far edge, and tumbled headlong into the grass. The knife fell clear. Ennis rushed forward and kicked it away. Jordan cursed and flailed as they cuffed him and wrestled him into the back of the Crown Vic. Along the way, the loincloth came undone. The onlookers from the bar across the street began to applaud. Except for one. Ennis noticed a short guy in a Seattle Seahawks jersey, wearing what looked like a blond muskrat pelt on his head: He was peering at the back of a digital camera.
Back at the town hall, Heibein was clearly shaken by the incident. “The guy got me my job,” he said. “Four, five years ago. I never pictured him in a loincloth. Shit, you think you know somebody."
Ennis had to agree, the behavior was uncharacteristic for a small-town mayor. Especially one running for reelection.
"Phencyclidine,” the doctor pronounced. “And more than a trace."
"PCP?” Ennis had considered the possibility, but was still surprised. “Are you sure?"
"I'm afraid so. Angel dust. Ozone.” He clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in the chair. “We'd see it at the Vegas clinic. Wack, hog, sherms. Some call it elephant. Rocket fuel, killer weed, crystal supergrass..."
Ennis held up a hand. “I get it. So what, was he smoking it? Can you tell?"
"Some evidence of THC, so probably. But there are a variety of ways to get it into your system. Orally. Transdermal absorption. Even eyedrops."
Ennis rubbed his chin. “His wife says he's completely drug-free."
The doctor smiled. “Not completely, it seems."
"What about accidental exposure? Any way he could have come in contact with it without knowing?"
"This is not a chemical you see just lying around. I'd be very interested to know how the mayor got loaded on PCP without some kind of intent."
"His intent, or somebody else's?"
"I hadn't thought of that. Well. That's your bailiwick, isn't it?"
* * * *
Mel Jordan's opponent in the mayor's race was Leonard Strange, an aging ex-hippie who lived in a home-built geodesic dome about a mile up the Gypsy Creek road. Judging by the few crude yard signs around town, he was running on a three-part platform: organic farming, world peace, and bringing to light the vast web of corruption at town hall. While he was well known in Worland, Montana, he was considered a long shot for the election. His campaign slogan, “Strange Days,” had not captured the public imagination.
Chuck Butler was bringing Ennis up to date on local politics from his post behind the counter of the Town Pump, a convenience store and gas station at the edge of town. He punctuated his remarks with thoughtful pulls on a Big Gulp cup the size of a wastebasket. The current issue of the Kootenai County Argus was on the counter. A black-and-white picture of Mel Jordan atop the picnic table dominated the front page.
"Not exactly flattering,” Ennis said.
"It can't help. Although he is twenty-five points ahead in the polls."
"Polls?"
"I talk to my customers."
"The beer-and-corn-dog demographic. What's the margin of error?"
Chuck shrugged. “That kind of spread, it doesn't need to be scientific. Anyway, that was before he went all Colonel Kurtz on us. Who knows what it'll be tomorrow?"
"Nude rampage in a public park: I guess it could sway the undecideds. But still, Leonard the Strange..."
"Hey, stranger things have happened."
"Here? When?"
Chuck frowned, rubbed his jowls. “Actually, nothing comes to mind."
Ennis tapped the picture. “At least they blurred out this area here. Small favors.” He studied the caption. “'Photograph by Jerry Bork.’ Who's that?"
"I've seen him around. Kid moved here last year from Colorado or someplace. Used to plant trees for the Forest Service. Now he mostly hangs out. And freelances for the Argus, apparently."
"Short guy with the blond mohawk? I think I saw him at the park. I don't know why he couldn't have gotten me in the picture. I thought I handled the whole thing rather heroically."
Chuck laughed. “Trust me, there's no upside to being in a picture with a naked bureaucrat. You should thank him."
"Maybe you're right.” Ennis skimmed the brief story. “Speaking hypothetically, what would you think if you learned PCP was a factor in the mayor's performance?"
Chuck stared. “You're kidding me. Angel dust?"
"Some call it elephant,” Ennis intoned. “We're speaking hypothetically."
"Hypothetically, I'd say it wasn't a great idea. Hindsight being what it is."
"What I mean is, you think Jordan has a thing for it? I hear he was something of a free spirit back in the day."
"Oh yeah, real radical. He had longish hair and listened to the Doors. Who didn't? Smoked a little weed, burned his fishing license, and told everybody it was his draft card. Big deal. I was a redneck, and I was more radical than that poser."
"Whatever. Returning to the point: You see him using drugs now?"
Chuck shook his head. “Nah. Doesn't even drink these days. Makes sure everybody knows it, too. Him and that wife of his, makes the funky pottery—she turned him into a vegan, you believe that? She's ragged on me about selling the fried chicken and malt liquor. Not the kind of folks who are going to grab a hit of angel dust to unwind. Hell, even lifelong stoners like Leonard Strange figured out that shit is bad news."
"Which brings me to my other hypothetical question."
"Wait a second. You're not thinking Leonard slipped his opponent a Mickey, are you? For political advantage? That would rock.” Chuck pondered this. “But nah, I just don't see it. Guy really doesn't seem to want it that bad."
Ennis followed Leonard Strange as he padded around his garden trailed by a large gray cat.
The candidate was arrayed in a Lilith Fair T-shirt, knee-length cargo shorts, and a pair of Birkenstocks that may have been older than Strange himself. The gray hair that remained around the perimeter of his head was tied back in a frizzy ponytail. He was carrying a plastic bucket and tilted water onto plants at random intervals. Ennis looked around; none of them seemed to be cannabis.
"I don't know what to tell you, man. Weird. But also ironic, you know, because I heard he was making these innuendoes that I'm some kind of big drug user. Man, talk about the cat calling the kettle black."
"The pot."
"What? Oh, yeah, I've smoked it now and then.” He chuckled. “But I never inhaled, you know?"
"This thing with the mayor; seems like it could help your election chances."
"Whatever, man. It might shed light on the man's basic hypocrisy, I guess. But the larger problem is globalization, big oil, Bush in the White House pulling the strings. Jordan's just working for the man. When the people get ready to rise up, make a difference, I'm here. If not, hey, it's all good.” He thought for a moment. “Sort of."
Ennis adjusted his sunglasses. Chuck was right: It didn't seem the sort of political manifesto to inspire covert dirty tricks. Or much else. The cat sidled over and began rubbing against his leg. He reached down to pet it.
"So you're a candidate for mayor, but not really running, per se."
"It's like Buddha says, man. You've got to...” Strange's voice trailed off as he gazed skyward, searching for the phrase. “You know, just go with the flow."
"I noticed you did put up some yard signs."
"Oh, that. No, that's the kid. Weird dude. Said he'd take care of all the hassles if I just put my name out there. I said, ‘Whatever, man.’”
"What kid is that?"
"Goes by Killa J. Wears a mohawk."
* * * *
Mel Jordan had been released on his own recognizance. His demeanor was subdued. He led Ennis into a living room crowded with glazed ceramic objects of uncertain func
tion. A show about Napoleon was playing on the History Channel.
The mayor collapsed into a leather La-Z-Boy and thumbed up the volume. He didn't look at Ennis.
"Waterloo,” he said at last. “That's what I'm looking at. Twenty-one years of public service. And now this."
"It's what I wanted to talk to you about. Have any ideas how PCP would show up in your blood test?"
Jordan bit his lip, staring at the TV. “That's another thing. Who gave permission for a blood test?"
"It's not like we needed permission, given that you were waving a knife and sideswiped those two cars with your Mustang."
Jordan put down the remote and looked up, his eyes watery. “I'm going to ask you a favor, John. It's important, it's my political life. I'm ... I'm hoping there's some way you can help keep this out of the newspaper."
Ennis cleared his throat. “I take it you don't subscribe?"
"No, we won't take that rag. Since the new owners, it's nothing but gossip and innuendo. If they get hold of this, they're going to plaster it all over the front page."
"You think? Hate to be the one to break it to you, but they already have."
What color remained in Jordan's round face drained quickly away. He looked ill. “How can that be? They don't publish until Thursday."
"Today is Thursday."
The mayor stared, swallowed hard, then buried his face in his hands. “No. No. This is a nightmare.” His shoulders began to shake. Ennis turned his hat in his hand as he waited. Presently Jordan lifted his head. His cheeks glistened.
"Listen, John; you've got to believe me. I've been set up. I swear. I think somebody did this. Did it to ruin me. This thing can't stand."
"Who would set you up? And how? I just talked with Leonard Strange. I really don't think he has anything to do with it."
"That burn-out? Neither do I, it's...” A door slammed and both men started. The mayor's wife, Margaret Stone-Jordan, stalked into the room holding a newspaper. She wore a mauve jumpsuit adorned with gaudy jewelry of her own design. She glared at Ennis. “Come to arrest him again? Be my guest."
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